


Countdown

by altairattorney



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, spoilers for the whole series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altairattorney/pseuds/altairattorney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How long does it take to change a life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> Because, in the writers’ opinion, Stan hasn’t suffered enough yet, and I am a cruel person. A collection of sad and happy changes throughout his life, each marked by how long it took to make it happen. Special thanks to pengychan for the company, once more! <3

**How long does it take to change a life?  
**

_four hours and thirty-seven minutes_  
  
“They are twins, Mr. Pines! Cheeky little devils, both of them.”  
“Um.”  
“With all due respect, sir. If I were you, I would be proud. Twice the pain and the happiness.”  
“We’ll have to see about that.”

* * *

 _seven words_  
  
“Stan! Are you okay?”

It is the first time they hit him instead. Not that punching Big Bart was the greatest of Stan’s ideas. In the end, Ford thinks, defending the six-fingered wimp brother is neither a new nor an important thing.

“Why not?”  
  
The way he answers through his bloodied teeth, aged nine, makes Ford shiver. He has to drag Stan to the infirmary by force.   
  
“But… but he hurt you! He is too strong! You really shouldn’t have –”  
  
“I don’t care,” Stan spits out. “You are more important.”  
  


* * *

_two hours and one sentence_

“Can’t you at least _try_ , for once?”  
  
It’s one of the heated discussions, the ones that rain down with the end of every semester. Stan is way too used to them. He only has to wait for the rage to cool down, that’s all.   
  
He has waited. And waited. And waited more. Not passing yet – a tougher tantrum than usual, ain’t it, Pa?  
  
“Because I can go with anything,” he growls, “except with people who don’t try  _at all_.”

Stan thinks of his life, and finds he sees it differently than his father does. He has projects. He has dreams he is never going to share with him. What would the point be?  
  
He still has them. He is working hard on them. And he snaps.  
  
“What’s so bad about my grades?” he yells. “You never gave a damn anyway! Not about me! So, as long as you don’t, I don’t give a damn either!”  
  
“Oh no, you don’t, you loser,” an ice-cold voice replies. “No need to tell me. It’s a wonder your brother bears with you at all. Because you know what? You are hopeless. You are never going to be like him.”  
  
Back in their room, Ford is there, as always. Patience, understanding glance and everything.  
  
Even so, something begins to break.   
  


* * *

_two seconds_

  
No kidding. Punching the wrong tables in a fit of rage is a bad, _bad_ habit.  
  
He won’t find out until tomorrow, though.

* * *

 _one thought_  
  
It dawns on him one winter morning, at five A.M., on the side of a solitary road in Colorado.   
  
He has no idea what Ford is up to. Not that he doubts him. He just cannot rule out the chance – he might as well be in the same situation, penniless and without a purpose.  
  
And in that case, he realizes as his teeth chatter, it would all be his fault.

* * *

_three hours before dawn_

  
By the time the sun rises, the plan is ready. He doesn’t lack alternatives – be it begging, stealing, cheating or gambling, there is nothing he isn’t willing to do. He has already tried all life can offer to a man with the worst of luck.  
  
There is not much to think through. Stan will find the money for anything, even a damn ticket, if it means answering that postcard.  
  
Hell or high water, he has somewhere to go at any cost.

* * *

_thirty seconds to activation_

  
All Stan can understand is they are fighting, and he is suffering in a way he no longer thought himself capable of. It takes him a while to process it won’t be over soon.  
  
It turns out to be one of those situations he can only watch go by, without the power to do anything.  
  
There was no stopping it, Stan repeats to himself later, on and on into the evening. He must come to believe it, somehow.  
  
Crying for the next five hours does not help, but it’s all he can do.  
  


* * *

_one afternoon_

  
He connects the signs he can see in the mirror. In his hands, more money than the whole of his past earnings. His clothes, still dirty and torn.   
  
Well, there is little point in money if you don’t spend any.  
  
His vocation showed up in the strangest of circumstances. It’s a relief, after losing everything, to have at least that.  
  
Not all his life purposes must have a tragic nature, in the end. He was starting to doubt it.  
  


* * *

_fifteen minutes and a screwdriver_

  
The kid is adorable, he must say. Chubby and peaceful, with a smile so sweet it could melt his waxen statues. He doesn’t really get what is happening, either – which is perfect for employers in dire need of free labour.

He hesitantly asks if he could be a good enough en-pol-yee for the Shack.   
  
“You’ll do just fine, kid! See the world of mystery around ya? A small signature, and you – yes, you! Little… Bruce?”  
“Soos!”  
“Soos! Anyway. You work here, and you can change its fate. For the better!”  
  
It will go quite the other way around, but neither knows yet.

* * *

 _twenty-five seconds of airtime_  
  
He couldn’t believe it when the Gravity Falls Committee for Effective Tourist Traps gave him the chance to air a commercial.  
  
He hasn’t gotten rid of the greasy hair wax yet, but he cannot bother to care. He even used that horrifying tie he had left to dust in the drawer for years. Anything clean would work.  
  
Faithful Soos, cheerier than usual, stays over until it airs. They watch it from the tattered sofa, and holler in joy together. 

Hundreds are watching. Who cares if it looks awful.

* * *

_a meeting of thirteen seconds_

“This is not good. We need someone else to help us!”  
“But who, Stan?”  
“Someone… new! Charming! You, random pre-teen girl!”  
  
Wendy turns to him, red hair still growing. She was passing there by chance, chasing after a ball with her friend Robbie.   
  
“What’s the matter, old creep?”  
“Wanna work at the Mystery Shack? Work! It means… money! In a way.”  
  
She lights up.  
  
“Money? Sure! Whatever.”  
  
And she may hate it, but she never leaves.

* * *

_a newspaper clipping_

The article is not that sensational. A square of average ink, thrown on a barely visible newspaper. But the grim tone of the title, in its brutal, uncaring simplicity, is more than enough to him.

The outcome is flawless, he thinks, morbidly satisfied. He got exactly what he wanted.

He puts the front page in his box. A grim reminder of what he could do, and even more so for what he couldn’t.

He does not mind that people who know him still breathe. Nobody cares anyway. As for the government, he can deal with it just fine.

The piece of paper in his hands is proof. He can leave everything behind.

If Stan is no more, he is finally free.

* * *

_call: forty-two minutes, eight seconds_

“Nice of you to remember me every ten years or something, sweetie. The grumpy old uncle, alone in his shack. So… what’s up?”  
  
A long talk follows. He can barely find any words to say. When it is his turn to speak, he almost drops the phone horn. 

He tries not to focus on his shaking hands.  
  
“I… I’m going to have a niece and a nephew?”  
  


* * *

_eighteen minutes at the bus stop_

  
He draws little circles around the pole. Even in his youth, Stan could never stop walking when he was nervous.  
  
It’s family. Someone he barely met before. He may not have a chance of making things right – but with them, if good luck smiles on him, he could be able to start something new.  
  
Turns out he does not need to think it over. As soon as he lays his eyes on them, every single thing he could ever say to them springs to his mind.  
  
They are adorable. They are twins, and it shows too well.  
  
He already loves them.

* * *

_one evening stroll_

  
“And you, cutie, are?”  
“Mabel!”  
  
Her voice is so thunderous, Lazy Susan cannot stop laughing. It reminds Stan of so many things.  
  
“This dummy is my twin brother, Dipper!”  
“Hey!”  
“I love him. Everyone loves him. And you already know the town legend, right? He is my Grunkle! Grunkle Stan!”  
  
Between concealing his tears, being able to speak again and acting rude, he lets five minutes of his time go by.

* * *

_overhearing ten seconds_

  
“She is my friend!” Mabel sobs, burdening Dipper with every detail of a moment of bitterness between her and Grenda. “She wouldn’t keep anything from me. You wouldn’t, right?”  
  
He’d rather not stand behind their door like this, but something nails him right there. Long enough to hear.  
  
“The people who love you never hide things from you.”  
  
It hurts too much to be a coincidence.

* * *

 _thirty years_  
  
It all comes down to this day, at that specific hour. He must be there.  
  
He has no idea what to expect. He has had nothing to cling to but hope, since the very start. If he does not try, how is he going to find out?  
  
But they are here. Their safety is his responsibility, in a way he had not foreseen. While he wouldn’t have made it without them, they are involved in this with no return.

Without a remedy in sight, he is torn between the things he wants. He wants him back, and he wants them safe. He wants everyone to be happy.  
  
He has to admit their presence changed everything.  
  


* * *

 _the last second_  
  
“I trust you.”  
  
That was unexpected.  
  
He had desperately hoped for it, but it doesn’t mean a thing.

* * *

 _tomorrow_  
  
What now? He cannot say.   
  
What he knows – if he knows anything at all – is that their lives will ever be the same.

The twins’ lives above all, a cruel part of his memory reminds him.

He cannot predict the future. Still, in a twisted, horrible way, he feels guilty.


End file.
